


Honeymoon

by ceywoozle, UpYourStreet (orphan_account)



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [40]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, John has had enough, M/M, Rough Sex, Schmoop, Sherlock is a jerk, but this is a johnlock fic i promise, eventually, it starts with john with other people, sex ensues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:18:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3410357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/UpYourStreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the One Word Bottomjohn Prompt Series.</p><p>John is just trying to get laid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honeymoon

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock POV by UpYourStreet  
> John POV by ceywoozle

Kissing. Oh, God, kissing is  _good._

Sophie is soft and eager and wanting and  _oh God_  so gorgeous and John doesn't know what he's done to deserve this. It's not possible to be this lucky, to actually have made this work. To have gotten this far without someone getting murdered or set on fire. Neither of them have been drugged unconscious or arrested. Neither of them have been kidnapped. Sherlock…Sherlock is  _out._  Oh God, this can't be real. Things this good aren't supposed to happen to him.

Sophie makes a noise.  _God,_  gorgeous Sophie and her perfect noises. He kisses her and he feels when the bed hits the back of his knees. They fall back into the mattress, giggling softly into each others mouths.

This is perfect. God. So perfect. How has he deserved this.

~~~~~~~~~~

That's the first thing Sherlock notices: a  _woman_  is in the flat. It's the particular way John's hung his coat in the foyer, which he never does at all unless he has a  _woman_  around. Next obvious step, the lingering scent of perfume. Not Mrs. Hudson's. Not a client's. John's newest conquest. Sarah? No, that was before. Sally? Sue? Sandy?

Sherlock takes a deep breath. He can smell John's cologne under the perfume. John's cologne, which is cheap and awful and does nothing for him, hangs just under Sherlock's nose. John only wears it when he's trying extra hard to get off with whatever woman caught his eye. Susan? Was it Susan? No, that's—

It's inconsequential, her name. Due to the lack of general noises above, it's easy to understand where they've ended up.

Sherlock pops his coat collar and lifts his chin. Isn't it just too bad he has experimenting to do. Loud, smelly experiments.

~~~~~~~~~~

The first thing John notices is the noise. The rattle of test tubes, the thump of something heavy falling on the floor.

He stops kissing Sophie—glorious, gorgeous Sophie—and leans his head as if to hear better.

“John?”

“Sherlock's home,” he says, and he feels the beginnings of despair kicking in.

Straddling him, Sophie makes a face. “The flatmate? So what?”

John opens his mouth the answer then stops. So  _what?_  So what indeed. After all, he lives here too. They're in  _his_  room. The door is closed. It's fine. They're fine. So he shrugs and reaches a hand up, runs his fingers through soft brown hair.

“So nothing,” he says, and pulls her back down to him.

And oh, God. He's lost in her. He's lost. There are hands and fingers and her hair trailing down his chest, over his belly, oversensitive and untouched for far, far too long. Lips soft and warm and fleeting and a tongue, wet and warm and intimate, oh  _G_ _od_  so intimate. He is breathing hard and arching into her and he feels her smile against his skin and it's then, it's right then, that he starts to notice the smell.

It's not the usual kind of smell. It's not the slow creeping subtle thing Sherlock's experiments usually deal in. There is nothing  _subtle_  about this smell. This smell is a bomb, something dropped unsuspectingly from above, sudden and deadly and instantaneously horrible. It reeks of war zones and opened graves and he doesn't know who moves first, he or Sophie, but suddenly they are both at the window, fighting the casing and the moment it opens, thrusting coughing, gasping heads into the open air.

“What—” Sophie's question is lost in a hacking cough, but John doesn't need her to finish to know how to answer that.

“That,” he says, wheezing into the night, “Is Sherlock.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Gas masks. He knew he was right to invest in one. Happily, Sherlock smells nothing, but he sees the gas he's created with a little chemical engineering and a vicious streak a mile wide. The gas is white and lingering all around the flat, seeping up, up, right above Sherlock's head.

The single most satisfying moment is honestly the  _thump_  followed by the sound of feet rushing to the nearest window.

Two pairs of feet, even better. That means John isn't just trying to tough it out. He'll probably try to salvage the evening but his heart won't be in it and he'll be glad when she leaves. And while Sherlock can't be certain of Susan's—Sue's? Sherri's?—character entirely, he believes she won't be wanting to stick around a place that reeks of something between rotting corpses and farts.

Sherlock chuckles, the sound muffled from behind the gas mask. It should disappoint him how easy this all is, honestly, but it's so much fun, gassing out John's annoying _lady friend_ _._

Honestly, doesn't John ever stop to realise how much better his life is when it's just the two of them? Why the need for this girlfriend business?

Sherlock goes to the window and waits for the sound of rushing feet down the stairs.

~~~~~~~~~~

 

She leaves, of course. He can't even explain to her properly the utter git that his flatmate is because talking hurts. Eyes watering, faces red and wheezing, they stumble together downstairs with their shirts covering their noses and mouths.

John catches the merest glimpse of Sherlock in the sitting room, framed against the window, wreathed in white fumes and wearing a gas mask, before he and Sophie are past, tumbling down the stairs and out the front door where they find Mrs Hudson, perched on the curb in her nightie and dressing gown.

“Hello, dears, ” she says. “I don't suppose you know how long this one will last?”

“Sorry, Mrs H,” John says, waving down a cab. “You know Sherlock.”

“Oh dear.”

He is helping Sophie into the cab and John has already mentally added her onto the tally of women who will never want to speak to him again, when she looks back at him, a lopsided smile on her face.

“I had a good time,” she says.

He stares at her. “Oh yeah?” he says cautiously. He's heard this one before.  _That was great fun compared to being kidnapped and tortured…except, oh wait, that just happened._

“Yeah,” she says, and she grins because she sees the disbelief in his face. “Well. Till the flatmate happened, anyway. Call me, alright? Next time we'll go…somewhere else. No flatmates. Just us. Sound good?”

“Jesus bloody Christ,” John exhales and leans forward, kissing her furiously for a second because he's found a miracle. “Yes,” he says, utterly fervent when he pulls back again. “Absolutely, yes. I'll call you.”

“Good,” she says, and shuts the cab door.

John watches it drive away.

~~~~~~~~~~

 

Oh, god. Really? Sherlock curls his lip in distaste.  _Kissing in the cab_ _._ Sherri's a hard one to crack. Sherlock would be impressed except he's already committed to deleting her existence from his head.

He opens the windows wide and lets in the rush of cool, clean air. It won't take long to get the gas out, though the smell might linger on the furniture for a couple days.

Sherlock sticks his head out the window. Mrs Hudson is outside in her nightie; Sherlock will have to be extra nice to her for a while. And John, just standing there like an idiot, watching the cab drive way with his flavour-of-the-week. Boring.

Sherlock rips the mask off his face and tosses it onto the sofa, sticking his head out the window again.

“It's safe now, Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock calls. “Relatively, anyway! Just open the windows, it'll be fine.”

Mrs Hudson is all little exclamations and exasperated calls of his name, looking up at him with a particular expression on her face, the one she pulls when Sherlock does something he shouldn't have. She disappears a moment later in a flutter of her dressing gown, and Sherlock can hear her door shut.

John's still out there. Shoulders stiff, back straight. Sherlock wonders if John will yell first or save that until after he's done with the cold shoulder. Or maybe he'll do something completely unexpected. A little thrill rolls down Sherlock's spine.

~~~~~~~~~~

John knows he should be angry at Sherlock. He knows Sherlock did this on purpose for whatever unknown reason of his own. Not that Sherlock seems to need a reason to be a git, but still, John is sure that in that sociopathic brain that Sherlock is constantly reminding him he has, somewhere,  _somehow,_  there was a  _good reason._

Anyway. Sophie doesn't hate him. He can afford to be agreeable.

He goes to bed with the window open and sleeps soundly for the first time in weeks. When he wakes up seven and a half hours later, he is energised and focussed. He showers with a smile, brushes his teeth and combs his hair. He grins at himself in the mirror then dresses in his most comfortable clothes and ten minutes later is ensconced in his chair with a cup of tea and his laptop.

 _London hotels,_  he types into the search bar, and starts scrolling the results with a smile.

~~~~~~~~~~

 _Jealousy_  is not something Sherlock enjoys feeling. He is brewing in it.

He was prepared last night for a fight, for something, anything other than John completely ignoring him and trotting off to bed happy as you please.

Just looking at him, freshly showered, hair combed, makes Sherlock's blood start to boil.

Honestly, John. That's it?  _That's it?_  Just go to bed and wake up happy and strut around the flat like he's had the best night of his life?

Rude. Honestly.

Sherlock can acknowledge he's being an arse, but it doesn't stop him.

He's striding over to John, hovering behind, looking over John's shoulder.

“Hotels, what a novel idea. Don't go cheap, nothing worse than a cheap hotel. Oh and by the way, shouldn't take more than a day or two for the smell to wear off completely. I didn't cause any one any harm, did I?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock is hovering, as usual. He usually does when John is on the laptop. Annoying git.

“No,” John says, not even bothering to look up. “No harm. Though if the smell doesn't go away you're paying to have professional cleaners come in, I hope you know.”

Sherlock huffs but says nothing. John ignores him, scrolling through the list. How does one choose a hotel? He's never been able to afford anything past a single star bedsit when on his own. Cases with Sherlock are usually joint so not so bad, but on his own, his bank account won't extend very far.

He scowls at the laptop screen.  _Too expensive…too expensive…not expensive enough…_

Christ how did people do this sort of thing? Was there a special hotel that people went to for this?

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock doesn't want to John to go away on some sex-filled night with Shania, but it's painful watching him consider the  _one_  star hotel rooms. John has more style than that.

And then, like all good ideas do, one bowls Sherlock right over. Metaphorically.

Because _of course_ _._  This would be absolutely perfect. A way to set this entire situation right. Or rather, a way to help John get over this ridiculous girlfriend thing and spend his time concentrating on what actually matters.

Sherlock leans in close, cheek practically grazing John's.

“No, not that one. That one's rubbish, don't go there,” Sherlock says. “One star is hardly likely to get you anywhere, your bedroom upstairs would look like a love den by comparison. Listen, you want to really  _woo_  her, don't you?”

John side-eyes him a bit, eyebrows raised. He looks disbelieving and a little intrigued all the same.

“I'd like a night out without interruption.” John says flatly.

“Right, I know exactly where you ought to go.”

~~~~~~~~~~

_This is a good idea. This is a good idea._

He tells himself this the whole drive over to the discreet little hotel on the northern edge of the city.

_You can trust Sherlock._

He grimaces because even to him that sounds unlikely.

But honestly, what could possibly go wrong? It's a hotel. The worst that can happen is that there are mice and the sheets are dirty, in which case they'll leave and he'll never speak to Sherlock again. Git.

“John?”

Sophie is looking at him, a small smile on her face, her expression warm and kind, oh so kind. God he likes her. He really, really likes her. He smiles back. “You look worried,” she says.

“Yeah, sorry. Flatmate chose the hotel.”

She chuckles, warm and low. “Probably wanted to apologise.”

 _God, I hope so,_  he thinks, and gives her an agreeable look.

He doesn't suspect a thing as they approach it. It's a low two storey building in a suburb, quiet and discreet looking, with the sign painted out in careful script above the door:  _The Honeymoon Hotel._  It looks clean. It looks… _nice._  The entrances to the rooms are all private leading directly inside from the street, all curtained windows with lights shining from behind them.

Sophie looks content as they park and climb from the car. He kisses her, tells her to wait there, and she smiles, letting her hand linger on his neck as he pulls away.

He gets the key. A room on the ground floor. They approach it together, silent but without any awkwardness. Comfortable, utterly content in the others presence, and John thinks  _God, it's never like this._

Which is probably why he should have been expecting it when he unlocks the door to find—

Sophie's scream is more outrage than fear. She doesn't slap him, or kick him, which he probably would have deserved. But she does turn around without another word. He goes after her, of course.

“Let me drive you—”

“John. No. This isn't going to work, I'm sorry.”

“Listen, he's a git. I'm sorry—”

“John, please. Just…let's pretend this never happened.”

So he calls her a cab. He can't even blame her.

~~~~~~~~~~

It wasn't technically a lie what he told John about  _The Honeymoon Hotel_ _._ Sherlock really did know the owner, he really had helped him out of a bad way, and the owner really did offer Sherlock use of the rooms here for free any time.

Sherlock just never made use of it, that was all. What use did he have for a male brothel? He hadn't. Until recently. If Sherlock had to endure one more day of that soppy look on John's face because what's-her-name called, he was going to throw up.

It was just too good, too easy. Sherlock made one little phone call and John had a nice room all set up for the low price of nothing. Sherlock just happened to forget to mention,  _Oh, hang on, it's a male brothel! Oops!_

It's ridiculously easy to hide out near the room and wait.

When John and whatever-her-name-is show up, all starry eyed and holding hands, jealousy rolls hot and sharp in Sherlock's guts. He's walked that close to John before many times, but their hands never so much as even  _brushed_ _._

John goes to open the door and Sherlock can hardly stand it. He knows what's waiting on the other side, and the shriek of angered indignation that she-who-is-annoying lets out is intensely satisfying to Sherlock's ears.

There's a brief little conversation between John and lady-annoying-voice. Sherlock doesn't pay it too much attention, busy as he is trying not to laugh too loudly. The satisfaction of a well executed plan, Sherlock thinks, is one of life's great pleasures.

And then John is alone.

Sherlock wonders if he ought to come out of hiding or head back to the flat to welcome John home with takeaway and his favourite movies. Sherlock is so caught up in thinking of the ways he's going to soothe John through this that he nearly misses it when John turns back towards the door of the hotel room.

~~~~~~~~~~

He should go home. God. He  _should go home._

But.

_But._

He thinks of how long it's been since he's been able to do something like this. How long he's avoided it. _James. God, James._  Brief, perfect, glorious James. He had thought that would last forever. Hasn't been able to face the prospect of being with another man since the slow trickle of letters from James had finally dammed to a full stop, months since.

 _Jesus, has it been months?_  Thirteen. God. Thirteen months since he'd last heard from James. More than a year. Can he do this? He doesn't know. He doesn't know anything, except that suddenly, unequivocally, he  _wants_  to. He thinks of that single glance of the man on the bed, back in the hotel room that Sherlock had sent him to. Remembers a lean, tanned body and short, fair hair, square shoulders and the strong line of a stubborn jaw, and my God John  _wants._

And he thinks,  _Well, why not?_

He turns around, and without a single breath of further hesitation, he walks through that door and shuts it irrevocably behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock can't tell what's just happened. Either he's dropped dead of a heart attack or John just  _went back into the hotel room where a mostly naked man with a large penis was waiting_ _._

Okay, no. Not dead, after all. The sharp rise of jealousy in Sherlock's heart is deadly, though. It's hot and coils around his heart and _squeezes_ _._

Sherlock once watched a monster of a boa constrictor squeeze its prey to death. Something similar is happening to his heart with these  _feelings_ _._

It propels him to action. He's not going to hide there in the dark and imagine all the things John's going to get up to in there.

Of two things Sherlock is absolutely certain:

1\. John is not straight.

2\. If John is going to have sex with a man, it is going to be Sherlock and that is the end of it. John… John is  _his_ _._  His John. His partner, his friend. His.

Sherlock strides with purpose to the door, using a master keycard (swiped earlier from the staff room – abysmal security, honestly) to open the door.

He's blinded with his jealousy, his need. He sees John standing there, already naked, god, he's  **naked**  and he's being kissed and pushed on the bed.

“Enough.” Sherlock says to the man whose hands are all over John. “I know over fifty seven ways to kill someone and make it look accidental and I also know how to fool the police from ever even suspecting me.”

The man in the tight pants takes a look between Sherlock and John before he shrugs and strolls right out of the room, the door shutting behind him.

Sherlock shuts his eyes and breathes for a second.

“You aren't honestly going to tell me you were about to let that man top you?”

~~~~~~~~~~

The man in the room is gorgeous, lean and hard and incredibly masculine. Even his smile is something iron-hard and confident and John can feel something like relief wash over him as he stands there, with the door closed at his back. He feels the tension unknit as he walks into the room, walks to the bed, to the man undoubtedly waiting for him.

John's muscles are slowly capitulating. He breathes and it feels like the first clear breath he's taken in weeks. A hand, faintly calloused, touches his face, and he sighs, letting his eyes close. Letting this feeling wash over him, of control passed on and given up. He leans into the touch and he hears the soft laugh from the man touching him.

“When's the last time someone got to undo you like this?”

John says nothing, lets that voice seep into his bones and turn them to gentle liquid.

“You're going to be beautiful underneath me, aren't you?”

John moans and it's a sound filled with relief. He can feel hands on him, pulling gently at buttons, tugging at his belt. He lets himself get undressed, and when his pants and trousers are pooled around his ankles he lets the guiding hand help him step out of them, leaving them behind. And then there is heat on his lips, breath against his mouth and he inhales the words that slip into him like a drug.

“You're just gorgeous, aren't you, soldier? I'm glad your girlfriend left. I can do so much more for you than she ever could. I can fuck you in ways she'll never be able to. Feel you properly, right from the inside. Watch you shatter apart on my cock.”

John makes a sound, a whimper high and wanting, and that voice turns into a chuckle, low and satisfied. “I'll take you apart, soldier. Just you wait. You'll never get enough of me.”

And then the man is kissing him, lips warm and soft and devouring and John can feel himself start to drown. There are hands on him, on his naked skin, touching and kneading and rubbing and John groans into the kiss as he feels the gentle shove downwards and the bed comes up to catch him.

And then there is the slam of a door, banging against a wall, and John jumps and nearly has a heart attack at the sight of Sherlock bloody Holmes standing in the door of the room, black coat flapping and the fiery snapping eyes of an avenging angel.

“Enough,” Sherlock says and his voice is the voice of a thousand seraphs seeking retribution against a wrong. “I know over fifty seven ways to kill someone and make it look accidental and I also know how to fool the police from ever even suspecting me.”

And John thinks, _This is ridiculous. I'm never getting laid again._  Part of his mind has already bowed to the inevitability of this situation, because he doesn't even try to stop the glorious blonde god from shrugging his shoulders and simply strolling out of the room. He shuts it behind him after a last look at John over Sherlock's black shoulder, and John reads the regret and the promise in it.  _Later,_  it says, and John feels the faintest stirring of hope before the door clicks shut and he is left with Sherlock, in full Valkyrie mode. John watches as those cold blue eyes momentarily shut and then Sherlock's voice, tired and angry and accusing: “You aren't honestly going to tell me you were about to let that man top you?”

There is a glimmer of his own rage at that. A glimpse of something hard and desperate that just wants to pound stones with its bare fists, but John pushes it down, pushes it away, and he doesn't even look at Sherlock as he bends down and starts to gather his clothes.

 _“John,”_  Sherlock snaps. “Answer me!”

John pulls his vest over his head and doesn't look up. “I'll be out of the flat by Monday. Now  _piss off.”_

_~~~~~~~~~~_

Sherlock is reacting without thinking. Not his preferred method, but he's watching John trying to get dressed and threatening to move out and the fear, desire and jealousy drive Sherlock forward, stalking towards John with sure, quick feet and what feels like a storm in his heart.

“Don't be stupid.” Sherlock snarls, snatching John's clothes from him and throwing them to the floor. “You're not  _leaving_ _._ You're not leaving here now, you're not leaving by Monday.”

John looks like he might punch Sherlock, but they both know it's not a fight John is after.

John's needs are very clear now, and if Sherlock isn't the man who is going to be part of that, he will shred glass with his teeth.

Sherlock's tearing his clothes off in a frenzy, throwing his coat on the floor, unbuttoning his shirt, his trousers, trying to get everything off all at once.

“You're such an idiot. If you wanted this, why didn't you just ask?” Sherlock growls, angrily yanking his trousers down. He honestly doesn't know if he's asking himself that, or John.

“Sherlock. What— What are you— That's—” John keeps stuttering. Maybe because every time he opens his mouth, Sherlock removes another item of clothing.

“Shut up, John.” Sherlock says, stepping into John's space. “Don't go. I don't want you to go.” He doesn't mean for it to come out as breathy and heartfelt as it does, but it's too late, the words fly out and he's naked and John's mostly naked, and they're in a hotel room and Sherlock is already half-hard just from standing this close to John sans clothing and he's pretty sure he's going to explode if they just keep standing there.

Sherlock leans in. He feels John's soft, warm breath puff across his lips. It's like a jolt in his body, lightning that spirals from his heart to his belly to his cock, and he's kissing John, kissing him hungrily.

And John is kissing back.

~~~~~~~~~~

A thousand replies flicker through John's head. A thousand comebacks.  _If you wanted this, why didn't you just ask?_

_I did. I do. I always have. Married to your work. Sociopath. Sentiment is a chemical defect. You don't feel things like that. You don't have friends._

A hundred different words, a thousand different ways to be rejected, from day one and onwards. And John can remember each one, knife wounds that refuse to close over. They bleed a bit more with every passing day till he's ready…he's ready to…God he doesn't know what. He can't leave. He knows that. If he'd been capable of that he would have been gone months ago, a final desperate grasp for the last lingering threads of his sanity.

 _Why didn't you just ask?_  Jesus bloody Christ. Why hadn't Sherlock  _offered?_

He stares up, glazed eyes, trying to make himself move, trying to respond to this sudden attack from nowhere. Sherlock is talking and his voice, John's never heard it like that before. Sincere. A quiet plea. In absolute earnest. Clothes are being removed with clumsy, shaking hands and John knows he should stop this but he can't remember why. He doesn't  _want_  to remember why.

And then Sherlock's clothes are gone. John is in his vest, staring at Sherlock naked above him. Sherlock naked, tall and angular with bones jutting where they shouldn't and he wonders briefly when the last time it was he has eaten. Sherlock's cock, long and narrow like the rest of him, is more than half hard and John stares at it as if hyponotised. Filled with horror and wonder at this absolute proof of something he had never dreamed possible.

Sherlock. Sherlock.  _Sherlock._  John watches as he bends down, leaning into him. Hands dip the mattress on either side of him, Sherlock's body invading the empty space around him until there is no emptiness anymore, until Sherlock is inches away, less than inches, until even that important division has been overcome and suddenly Sherlock is kissing him.  _Sherlock is kissing him._  It is slow and careful and filled with a quiet, desperate conviction, and this is a terrible idea. This is a  _terrible_  idea. John can't handle another James in his life. He won't be able to deal with the exact same rejection as before. Him versus the work, and him the loser. He  _needs_  sentiment. He  _needs_  to be first. He  _needs_ to stop this because his head is screaming at him that this will break him. What little remaining that James had left shattered in his wake will be swept up and discarded with the advent of Sherlock Holmes, but somehow he can't. Somehow his brain isn't in control anymore because somehow, he is kissing Sherlock back.

And  _oh God_  it's incredible. Sherlock's lips are chapped, the cutting edges of skin catching on his own, and John runs his tongue over them, softening them, tasting them. He tastes like October air and hot breath and John sighs into them, into the parted lips against his own. When Sherlock's tongue slips in past his lips he lets it, making a high sound of approval. He notices when he's being pressed back again, when that body above him continues to encroach, and he allows the slow invasion, retreating before it till he is on his back on the cheap hotel mattress and Sherlock is above him, knees straddling at his hips and hands tangling in his hair.

~~~~~~~~~~

John's hair is short and easy to grasp and Sherlock has now found out how much he loves threading his fingers through it.

That John is allowing this makes Sherlock press even further, driven on by John's soft noises and roaming hands. There are tongues slipping together, obscene little smacking sounds filling the air every time their lips part.

Sherlock wants to touch everywhere. He's not hurried, there's no rush. He wants to see what noises John makes, wants to soak up all that information and possibly spend the rest of his life collecting more and more.

John. His John.  _His_ _._

Sherlock groans low and deep into John's mouth, dragging his lips from John's so he can taste and kiss everywhere. That vest needs to go first and John lifts his arms and helps Sherlock remove it where it is tossed somewhere on the floor, forgotten.

John's chest is beautiful, strong and masculine with small nipples that Sherlock immediately attaches his mouth to. He needs to know. Will they be sensitive? Will John like it? Sucking on one and toying with the other, Sherlock is pleased when John arches his back, pushing his chest out. Sherlock can  _feel_  John's pleasured little growl vibrating through his lips. In that instant Sherlock knows he's going to spend the rest of forever trying to get John to make that noise.

John is tugging at his hair, pulling Sherlock away from the nipple biting, and Sherlock goes willingly, happily, to meet John's lips in another kiss. John's arms wrap around him and Sherlock clings back, deepening their kiss until they don't even need to part their lips, it's just their open mouths and sliding tongues and heavy breathing through their noses.

Sherlock curls over John, slipping one of his arms under John's back so he can cup and support the back of John's head with his hand while they kiss. John likes that, he makes another soft little noise, one of his hands curling over Sherlock's arse to squeeze it and push Sherlock forward a little.

It causes a subtle shifting in their positions, all without the need to break their kissing. John opens his legs and Sherlock settles between them, his other arm slipping under John's hips.

And then their cocks line up for the first time, a hot, velvety slide that jolts them both, the kiss breaking with a trail of saliva that clings to John's lips.

Sherlock looks down at John gorgeous and lying there in the cradle of Sherlock's arms, red lips, mussed up hair, dark blue eyes…

“John.” Sherlock breathes. He wants to say something. Anything. His heart is full.  _I want you. I need you. Stay with me. Let me have you. Be with me._ He tries, but he can't make himself say those things. So he just breathes John's name again, and slowly rocks his hips.

~~~~~~~~~~

It is  _aching,_  this want, this need, this utter and absolute necessity.

 _“John,”_ Sherlock breathes and there is everything in that word, the single syllable of his name.  _“John.”_

He moans and presses upwards, arching into the cage of Sherlock's body, perfectly ensconced. He pushes against the restraining influence of limbs just so he can feel them push back, keep him contained and whole.

The heavy slide of their cocks, tight between their bellies, is a blissful roll of pleasure, but it's not enough. John knows it's not enough, and though part of him wants this to go on forever, to never have to wake from whatever miracle he's fallen into, the rest of him is shouting with something else. What he had come here tonight to get. What he had thought he had finally found when he'd closed the door of this room behind him.

He groans against Sherlock's mouth, a different sound this time, insistent and determined. He cocks his hips at an angle and feels the air slip in between them, their cocks bobbing free of each other.

“Please,” he says. “Sherlock, please.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock's cock slips beneath John's body, where his hand under John's hips allows him room. It's imperfect, but he can push his cock up behind John's balls and let it follow the natural path to where John wants it the most.

“Please.” John says again.

He looks beautiful, John. Soft voice, but fire in his eyes.

The nice thing about this hotel room is that all needs were anticipated for. There are packets of lube stashed in the night table drawers, and even more placed in a clear glass dish next to the lamp. A box of condoms sits beside it.

“I want to have sex with you, John,” Sherlock says, breathing next to John's ear. “I want to fuck you. Let me.”

“Sherlock, Christ,  _yes_ _.”_  John groans.

Feeling John shiver with desire like that with their bodies pressed so close is incredible. Sherlock knows he's going to have to let go of John for this, and he moves reluctantly, unwilling just yet to not be wrapped around John.

It's a small adjustment. John reaches for the lube packets and Sherlock frees his arms and settles on his knees between John's legs.

“Do we need condoms?” Sherlock asks as he tears open a packet of lube to smear all over his cock.

“No.” John says quickly, firmly.

Sherlock looks at John and their eyes lock and they're sharing a soft, private smile. Sherlock can hardly look away, he doesn't want to. He wants to keep reading everything John is feeling, the desire and need and flickers of nervousness.

Sherlock uses another packet of lube and pours it on his fingers, settling back over John, reaching between John's legs and below, finding that hidden place. He presses his finger to it, and John jolts, shivers.

“You okay?” Sherlock asks. He knows John is.

“Yes, yes. More, c'mon.” John demands, wiggling his hips and pushing back on Sherlock's finger that hasn't even pushed inside yet.

Sherlock kisses John through it. Through the first push of his finger inside, to the second, to the third. He's kissing John while he finger-fucks him, greedily drinking up every moan and cry John makes.

Sherlock's cock is throbbing, aching, heavy and red. He doesn't stop to ask if John's ready because he knows John is.

Another smear of lube and Sherlock is lining his cock up and pressing inside.

~~~~~~~~~~

He wants,  _oh god_  he  _wants._

Sherlock is slow and careful and oh so gentle and John is biting on his tongue to keep himself from cursing him, to keep himself from begging. He needs this. He knows Sherlock is right, that he needs to be prepared, that they need to be careful, but he's not feeling  _careful._  He's not feeling  _rational._  He can barely keep his hips still, jerking and shuddering against Sherlock's invading fingers.

When finally,  _finally,_  he feels them slide out of him, he knows it's time. He knows he's ready. He's  _past_  ready.

“Please!” he says, and knows he's begging, doesn't care. “God, Sherlock, please.”

There is something like wonder on Sherlock's face. Something like awe. He doesn't answer but he puts a calming hand on John's quivering belly and a moment later there is the press of something at John's entrance, something heavy and slippery far larger than a finger, than three fingers. He makes an involuntary noise, uncertain and eager, and he sees Sherlock blue eyes flicker up and settle onto his.

“John?”

“Hurry up. Please. Please just go. I need it. I want it. Sherlock.  _Sherlock.”_

Sherlock doesn't hurry. He leans down and kisses John, slowly and promisingly, and John whimpers into his mouth because this is too long. This isn't what he needs.

 _“Sherlock!”_  he says, sharp and demanding, and he pushes himself down, seeking that pressure against his hole.

“Shh,” Sherlock soothes. “You'll hurt yourself.”

John almost sobs with frustration. He's seconds away from kicking Sherlock away, from pushing him off and just doing it himself. With something. Anything. Surely there's something here he can use. He is frantic and Sherlock is going so  _slow,_  so  _careful._

“Sherlock!” he says again, a last warning. God why does this bloody man never  _listen._

_~~~~~~~~~~_

Sherlock has to admit, there is a certain appeal to watching John so barely restrained. He's quivering, he's desperate, he's wild.

Sherlock takes a steadying breath. He's being too gentle. John doesn't need gentle anymore.

Sherlock shoves his cock all the way inside without warning, without a word. John nearly howls. He's balls deep and buried inside John and it's tight and hot and slick. Sherlock isn't ruthless, but he isn't gentle, not like before. He grabs a hold of John's hips for leverage and slams into him, a harsh, powerful movement that makes John's body jerk and shake.

Sherlock fucks him like that, bent low over John and driving into him. The force of it sends them moving across the bed, the sheets ripping from the mattress and bunching up beneath them. John's head is nearly off the bed when Sherlock decides to rearrange their position.

He pulls out, ignoring John's demanding protest, and manhandles John onto his hands and knees. It's easier this way, John can grab the headboard to keep steady and Sherlock can grab John's hair and  _yank_ every time he thrusts back inside.

He knows he's hitting John's prostate, especially at this angle, and John isn't even sounding human anymore, he's all animal noises and grunts and shouts.

Sherlock is breathing hard, his heart racing. He steadies himself on knees and grips John's ass cheeks with both hands before he lets go and  _smacks_  them. John nearly sobs.

Sherlock rests there on his knees for a heartbeat. “Fuck yourself on me,” He says.

~~~~~~~~~~

 _Oh God oh God oh God oh Godohgodohgodohgodohgod_ the command is too much. John is frantic and falling apart. He is dimly aware of the sound of his own shouts, animal and desperate, utterly inhuman. He's lost control somewhere along the way. Lost everything that's left of him. And  _oh God_  it's glorious.

He is panting and pleading, wordless animal grunts that hold no meaning. He is on his hands and knees and Sherlock is just behind him, just  _kneeling there_  and not  _doing anything_ and oh my God John is sobbing as one hot palm smacks stingingly against his arse cheek and he jumps and cries at the sensation, his body automatically pressing back, wanting more.

 _“Fuck yourself. On. Me.”_ Sherlock says again and it's a command, harsh and absolutely merciless, and John can't question it, there isn't enough of him left to question it. His hips are stuttering and jerking on their own and he's trying, god he's trying but he can't find Sherlock's cock, can't line is up, and he sobs because he  _needs,_ oh god he  _needs._

”Pathetic,” Sherlock says. “Next time I won't be so helpful,” and suddenly slams into John's body with a single thrust and John screams.

_~~~~~~~~~~_

Sherlock leans over John's back to bite his shoulder as he slams his cock inside the needy body below him.

John is so responsive, his body constantly shuddering, shivering, shaking. It's beautiful to see. John is always so tightly coiled, it's a pleasure to see him unravel.

Sherlock soothes over the the bite mark with his tongue, laving at it until it's shiny and wet. He leans back and cups the back of John's head and pushes down on it, forcing John to lower his upper body.

“Relax your shoulders, put your head on the bed.”

John mewls softly, does as he's told, and it leaves his ass high in the air and spread open.

Sherlock presses down on John's head with his hand, just enough pressure for John to know it's unmistakably there, and fucks him hard until he's sure his cock going to burst.

They're both glistening in sweat, both grunting and panting. Sherlock notices John hasn't even once reached for his own cock. But Sherlock wants to see. He wants to watch when John comes.

Sherlock stops. He pulls out and sits back on the bed. John  _whines._

“Come over here,” Sherlock says, “And sit on my cock so I can chew on your tits and make you come.”

Sherlock groans watching his cock disappearing as John sinks down on it, not stopping until he's fully seated.

“Ride me now, show me how much you want it.” Sherlock whispers to John, smoothing his tongue across a nipple and biting on it.

John is wiggling and writhing and grinding on Sherlock's cock, bouncing with trembling thighs.

Sherlock spits in his hand and grasps John's cock to pull and pump it while he lavishes his attention on John's chest. He can't help but look up into John's face and feel such a thrill at how completely taken over with bliss he looks. There's a bit of drool lingering on his chin from being face down in the bed before, his hair hopelessly mussed, his eyes shut.

Sherlock imagines a life where he gets to have this whenever he wants. It makes him jerk his hips a little, a fresh hit of pleasure swirling through him.

“Sherlock,” John breathes.

“Tell me, John. Tell me how it feels, how much you like my cock up inside you. Tell me.”

_~~~~~~~~~~_

His thighs are burning, his arse clenching around Sherlock's cock with every pump of his hips. Sherlock's hand is hot and wet on his cock, sliding up and down with the force of John's own motion. Sherlock's teeth, his tongue, are slippery on his chest, laving his nipples with saliva that he can feel running down his stomach, leaving a trail down his body.

He is frantic. He is wild. His body is pumping and jerking, flailing wildly between sensations, losing control as everything presses in all at once, demanding his attention and he flies madly between each one, the heavy invasion pulling him to pieces from behind, pushing into him and taking him over, splitting him apart. The hand on his cock, tight and demanding and dragging him back together. The mouth on his chest, pulsing insistently at the edge of everything. He is throbbing, his whole body aching with a thousand different demands, overwhelmed and utterly bewildered.

Sherlock is speaking to him, he knows because he can feel the vibration, low and commanding running through his entire body, pushing up through the cock buried in his arse and running in frantic circles in his head.

“Tell me, John. Tell me how it feels, how much you like my cock up inside you. Tell me.”

He opens his mouth but there are no words. He tries but just sound comes out, pouring from his open mouth, something heated and mated and claimed.

“John,” Sherlock says, insistent. Demanding. “Tell me, John. What is it like with my cock in your arse? Can you feel it, heavy and hot, tearing you apart everytime you fuck yourself down on it? Do you like it that much, that you'll just keep going? Fucking yourself, over and over and over? When will you stop, John?  _Can_  you stop? What if I took my hand away from your cock? What if made you bounce up and down for hours? Fucking yourself and never getting close? How long until you started begging me again? How long until you broke?”

John is mindless with the ache, with the eagerness, with the need. Sherlock voice is shivering up inside of him, driven inside him with every pump of John's hips and thighs, impaling him downwards, desperate to be filled, for the slide of hot, hard skin stretching burning past his hole and plunging in, heavy and unmistakeably present.

He tries to speak again but the words have left him. Everything but the name, two syllables bright and burning, a mating cry of some broken beast:  _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock._

“Oh John,” Sherlock says, his voice soft, so soft. “My John. Come for me, John.”

And with a cry, rending and high and filled with the glory of relief, John does.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock can't believe what he's seeing. John is the most gorgeous sight he's ever seen, flying apart, shuddering and shaking, ropes of his come spilling from his cock like an overfull cup; it runs down Sherlock's hand, down his wrist, dripping onto his lap. And with his hole pulsing and clenching with orgasm around Sherlock's cock, it's hard for Sherlock to hold back from coming himself. He's so deep inside John, the tight hot squeeze pulls at him, teasing release.

But Sherlock can't yet.

“I've got you, I've got you,” Sherlock says low and soft, wrapping one arm tight around John to hold him steady, anchor him, give him something to cling to. John's poor thighs – he's still rocking on Sherlock's cock, even through his shattering orgasm. Sherlock is in awe. One day he'll whisper into John's ear what a gorgeous little cockslut he is.

John's shuddering breaths start to calm. Sherlock looks at the cock in his hand and squeezes it, pushing his thump up into the frenulum, coaxing out one last spill of come that beads at the tip and runs slowly down.

“You're so beautiful,” Sherlock can't help saying it. “My John. John.” He could say John's name for the rest of his life, gladly. His heart feels hot and tight with affection, pushing against his ribs and trying to get out. He can't yet, not yet.

John slumps over, finally relaxing, hiding his face in Sherlock's neck. He mumbles Sherlock's name, tender and soft.

Sherlock's cock is throbbing inside John still, and with John taken care of, it becomes the only thing Sherlock can focus on. He cradles John in his arms again, one hand cupping the back of John's head, the other wrapped around his hips, and he lowers John to the bed, immediately humping into John like an animal, all grunts and snapping hips. He buries his face under John's arm and smells the musk of him, tastes his sweat. John's hole is still squeezing and fluttering around him, and Sherlock pushes in once, twice— stars explode behind his eyes, white hot pleasure pumping in his veins. He spills into John, pumping his come deep inside.

“Can you feel it? Feel me filling you up?” Sherlock pants into John's ear. “You're mine, John, you're mine.”

John groans Sherlock's name, long and low and deep.

Sherlock wants to be here forever, endlessly filling John with his cock and come, always feeling this close and connected.

When Sherlock starts to pull out, John makes a tiny, soft noise.

“Later,” Sherlock assures him. “We'll do this again later. At home. In our bed.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It's burning, too sensitive. Sherlock's thumb, slipping into the crease of his frenulum makes him shudder but he couldn't move away if he wanted to. He is boneless, limp, and utterly spent. He is pressed into Sherlock's neck and feels his hole clenching around the intrusions that's stretching his rim and he is abruptly aware of it in a way he hadn't been before. It feels heavier. Hotter. He squirms weakly but Sherlock holds him tight, thrust deep up inside him and refusing to let him go.

He can feel himself being lowered onto his back, Sherlock tight against him, holding him close and John lets it happen. Lets himself be laid down, and he doesn't even protest when Sherlock starts fucking him again. The last shivers of his own orgasm are still hovering at the edge of everything and it's enough to make him spread his aching legs and want more. It is bliss.

When he feel the sudden jerking of Sherlock's hips smacking against him, he makes a sound and has no idea what it was. There is a last bruising thrust and then he can feel it, hot and heavy and wet, filling him and Sherlock is murmuring to him, telling him how John belongs to him now, and John can only lie there and wonder why it's taken Sherlock so long to figure that out.

When Sherlock finally pulls out, the emptiness is a grasping, hollowing thing and he cries out involuntarily, feeling the ring of his hole clenching at nothing, the hot rush of Sherlock's come spilling out of him and down the cleft of his cheeks.

“Later,” Sherlock promises him. “We'll do this again later. At home. In our bed.” John only nods, pressing his head into Sherlock's sweaty neck. Our bed. He doesn't miss that.

~~~~~~~~~~

The cab ride back to Baker Street is quiet. It's not strained, though. It's warm and safe and comforting.

John squirms in his seat, though. Sherlock can see he's excited, but exhausted. And sore. He's going to be sore for a while.

Sherlock reaches his hand out, touching his fingertips to John's.

“Soon as we're home.” Sherlock says.

John nods.

They pass the time with their hands touching and looking out the windows at the rainy London night.

They're quiet when they go inside, careful to take the stairs with soft feet lest they wake Mrs Hudson.

From there, it's locking themselves in their flat and meeting together in the lounge for a slow, long kiss.

Something clicks into place in Sherlock's head.  _This is right_ _,_  he thinks.  _This is how it should be_ _._ Kissing in their flat, surrounded by their things, living their life that they've been building together for so long without even realizing. He was so stupid to have not seen this before. John is in arms, kissing him back, happily tugging Sherlock's coat from his shoulders, and this… this is exactly how it's supposed to be.

John pulls away from the kiss. “You said you knew the owner of that hotel? Because. Maybe we could go there. Sometimes.”

Sherlock laughs low and soft, grazing his lips over John's cheek. “You just want a free room for a night with lube, sex toys and soundproof walls.”

“Don't you?” John counters.

“We'll _Honeymoon_ once a month. The rest of of the time, I'm having you absolutely everywhere in this flat.”

“The kitchen.” John pipes up. “By the windows over there. The chairs.” He pauses for a second, considering. “Definitely the bathroom.”

Sherlock wants to  **burst**  he's so in love. He calms himself by kissing John's lips. “And you'll have to be quiet sometimes. And if you can't be, I'll have to make you quiet.”

John shivers in his arms and kisses back with a little edge behind it.

“Let's go to bed, John.” Sherlock says.

They click off the lights and shut the door of the bedroom behind them.


End file.
